


A Study In Persistency

by AbschaumNo1



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Combeferre with tattoos, Enjolras can be a good friend, I admit it I just dig everyone with tattoos, M/M, Tattoo Artist Grantaire, Tattoos, and that too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbschaumNo1/pseuds/AbschaumNo1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were few things about Combeferre that Grantaire liked more than his tattoos...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Persistency

**Author's Note:**

> So after writing tattooed Enjolras recently and reading about tattooed Combeferre on tumblr I couldn't help myself and thought about tattoo artist Grantaire tattooing Combeferre.  
> Also there is never enough Combetaire in the world. It's a fact.

There were few things about Combeferre that Grantaire liked more than his tattoos, and maybe that was a bit narcissist, but then there were so few things in his life to be narcissist about that he couldn’t bring himself to care. (Combeferre would tell him that he was wrong, with a serious look in his eyes, and maybe a hint of lust and adoration.) Fact was that Grantaire loved Combeferre’s tattoos and the man himself and pretty much everything else about him, and that he would happily spend the rest of his life with Combeferre (unless he would fuck up spectacularly, which he didn’t plan to, but always was in the realm of possibility).

But all of this was telling the story backwards, from present to past, and it meant missing out on so many details that showed their progress in the time they had known each other.

They had met when Combeferre had decided to get his first tattoo. Well, actually when the man had walked into Grantaire’s shop and asked for an appointment. Grantaire had raised an eyebrow, because if someone looked like they would get a tattoo it certainly wasn’t this guy. He was dressed in beige pants and a light blue polo shirt; his glasses were perched high on the bridge of his nose, simple rectangles in silver metal; and his hair looked like there was not one hair out of place.

Combeferre’s first tattoo had been a moth. Grantaire could still remember the stencil on the other man’s skin, and he could still feel Combeferre tensing slightly when the needle had begun to pierce his skin. They talked about this and that: Combeferre’s work at the university, the hours he spent helping in a local shelter for homeless people, philosophy and the classics, books, and Grantaire found himself enjoying this man’s company, but he did not expect to see him again after they were finished and Combeferre had paid and had left through the door.

But Combeferre came back; it was six months later that he walked into Grantaire’s shop again because he wanted to get another tattoo. It was an owl this time, the bird of Athena, as Grantaire remarked with a smirk, and Combeferre smiled.

“A goddess of wisdom and war, I couldn’t think of anyone worthier than her,” he said and Grantaire laughed.

“I thought you might say that.”

This time Combeferre lingered after they finished, just shortly, to invite him to meet sometime.

“You don’t want to get to know me any better than you already do,” Grantaire replied, the strain in his smile only barely visible.

Combeferre arched an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Just trust me on this.”

“Come on. I won’t run away just after one conversation.”

“Do I get you off my back if I say yes?”

Combeferre smiled. “Maybe.”

In the end it definitely didn’t go as bad as Grantaire had expected. They had a slight disagreement about whether change was possible or not, but Combeferre accepted that Grantaire didn’t believe in change, and soon they were talking about more positive things again.

Just as Combeferre’s cryptic “maybe” had promised he stayed persistent. He tended to pop into the shop every once in a while, just talking with Grantaire while he sketched tattoo ideas or smoked in front of the door. Sometimes he brought books along that he thought Grantaire might want to read. (There was a small stack of them behind the counter, books that Combeferre had brought and never taken back; Grantaire had read every single one of them.) Sometimes he brought friends because he was actually on his way somewhere but had wanted to give this or that book or article to Grantaire.

They were usually nice, there was always smiling Joly, who seemed to continuously think he had caught one disease or another; Jehan, who looked like he might as well be Khal Drogo, but was also a poet (Grantaire was the one who inked his favourite poem onto his ribcage); boisterous Bahorel, who tended to have bruises from boxing and sometimes trained with Grantaire; cheerful Courfeyrac, who seemed to want to become his friend as soon as he walked through the door; and finally Enjolras, who did not only look like Apollo incarnate, but was also way too idealistic for his own good. Most of them returned on their own, some brought other friends along; others (Enjolras) did only enter Grantaire’s shop when they were forced to.

“What are you trying to do?” Grantaire asked Combeferre while he was tattooing the latest addition to his collection onto his body (a small poem, just a few lines, apparently written by Jehan).

“What do you mean, what am I trying to do?”

“You know what I mean; coming in, bringing your friends along, giving me all these books. There must be something you’re trying to do.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that it is because I like you?”

Grantaire snorted, and they didn’t talk about it until Combeferre was about to walk out of the door.

“I do like you, by the way. You’re a great person, even if you don’t think so sometimes.” And with that he walked out and left a slightly confused Grantaire behind. (He couldn’t have meant it the way Grantaire’s brain wanted to interpret it. There was no way the feeling in his stomach was justified.)

Combeferre continued to come and they still had their conversations and they still saw some things fundamentally different (“It’s not that I don’t think everyone should be educated, it’s more that I don’t believe they will ever actively do something for it.” “Which is why we need to change something.” “Well, good luck with that.”), but somehow it worked.

Grantaire could really only blame Combeferre’s persistency for how he wormed his way into Grantaire’s heart (he felt warm when Combeferre took his hand to help him up, and it felt good when their knees brushed accidentally or when Combeferre stood slightly too close). But since the man showed no inclination towards taking it further there was really only one conclusion for Grantaire: Combeferre liked him, but only as a friend. (Hoping for more would only lead to a broken heart; Grantaire had learned that long ago.)

Maybe it was because of that that Grantaire didn’t realise what Combeferre wanted when he asked him out for dinner. At the time he only said yes, without thinking about it, because he enjoyed Combeferre’s company and he would take every opportunity he go to have it to himself.

It was only when he talked with Bahorel about it after a training session that he saw what it truly meant.

“Man, a dinner date? I haven’t seen him take anyone on a dinner date for a long time.  Looks like he really likes you.” Bahorel grinned and clapped his shoulder. “Well done, mate.”

Grantaire could feel himself blush, and only spluttered out a thank you, but the possibility of this dinner being a date had not occurred to him until that moment. It left him slightly lightheaded and with the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. It seemed not all hope was for nothing.

The dinner went well and one dinner turned into two and then three and finally an invitation to Combeferre’s flat to have homemade dinner. That particular evening ended with them on the couch, sitting on opposite ends of it at first, but moving closer as they talked, until Grantaire ended up with his feet in Combeferre’s lap and emphasising a point, while Combeferre watched him with a fond expression on his face. He was in the middle of his argument when Combeferre leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. There was that short moment of surprise that Grantaire’s brain needed to catch up with that was happening, and Combeferre was about to move away when Grantaire grabbed his shirt and pulled him in to respond to the kiss. After a bit of manoeuvring they ended up in some sort of half sitting, half lying position, with Combeferre somewhat sprawled on top of Grantaire. It was awkward to be honest, but it was also perfect.

(“There will be bad days,” Grantaire would tell Combeferre later. “And times when I will reject the idea of you loving me in any way. I will lash out and fuck things up.”

“I know. I’ll deal with it,” Combeferre would reply and kiss him.)

The only thing that really changed during the first few weeks following that was that there was kissing now and casual touching when they were together. It was only then, after their first kiss, that Grantaire realised how much time they were already spending together.

They took small steps; steps they didn’t necessarily talk about. “Things will happen when they happen,” Combeferre had said with a soft smile when making out had almost turned into more and Grantaire had pulled back, because he was suddenly very aware of the shortcomings of his body. But step by step they realised how much they truly loved each other and learned each other in every way they could.

Just as Grantaire had predicted there were bad days; days when he almost relapsed into the alcoholism he had given up all these years ago; days when the stress got too much and even patient Combeferre couldn’t stop himself from snapping. But they worked through it and soon they knew what to do in such a case.

The first time Combeferre had snapped at Grantaire had been the worst. Grantaire had recoiled, a wounded look in his eyes that Combeferre had hated immediately, but when he tried to apologise Grantaire was already out of the door and Combeferre stood helplessly in his living room.

It was Enjolras who found Grantaire sitting on a bench, staring at a bar, and joined him. It was Enjolras who told Grantaire, “Listen, R. It may not always look like it with our discussions and everything, but I do consider you a friend, and as Combeferre’s best friend I can tell you that he really loves you, and whatever he said today, he didn’t mean it. He is beating himself up about it already and he really really hopes you can forgive him, because he loves you.”

“Then why did he say it in the first place, Apollo?” Grantaire’s smile was bitter.

“People overreact sometimes, you know that as well as I do. He was stressed, he didn’t think about what he was saying.”

“I never took you for one who would be so understanding of people’s mistakes.”

“Maybe it’s because I do it myself so often.” Enjolras shrugged. “But really, R, he’s regretting it more than anything. He loves you so much, please go back and forgive him.”

(When Grantaire returned  Combeferre almost collapsed into his arms, whispering “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry” over and over again.)

Their lives fell together gradually. Grantaire spending more and more time in Combeferre’s flat turned into more and more of his things migrating over from his own apartment until he woke up to Combeferre tracing the outline of his shoulder and asking him to move in. (He breathed “yes” and Combeferre grinned happily at him before he leaned down to kiss him.)

And weeks later when they lay side by side in bed Grantaire watched a still sleeping Combeferre and traced the outline of one of the tattoos on his torso (they had grown in  number since he tattooed that short poem onto Combeferre’s shoulder blade and his partner said he had no intention to stop soon), he had the startling realisation that this was his reality now; that the tattooed scholar in his bed would be there every morning, and that he was his (until Grantaire would manage to do something so fundamentally wrong that it just had to end, but that thought was a doubt at the very edge of his consciousness that he pushed away with all his might).

There were few things about Combeferre that Grantaire liked more than his tattoos, and maybe that was slightly narcissist, but then they were what had brought them together in the first place.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://abschaumno1.tumblr.com).


End file.
